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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25793836">Life as We Know It</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nextgeneration/pseuds/nextgeneration'>nextgeneration</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abandonment, Addiction, Adolescent Sexuality, Adoption, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Death, Anxiety Attacks, Backstory, Blood and Injury, Body Horror, Body Image, Brain death, CSA/COCSA, Car Accidents, Catholicism, Child Abuse, Child Death, Child Neglect, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Christianity, Coming Out, Corpses, Cutting, Death, Depressed Hank Anderson, Depression, Divorce, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drunk Blow Jobs, Dysfunctional Family, Family Loss, Family Secrets, Fantasizing, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Gay Male Character, Graphic Description of Corpses, Grief/Mourning, Guns, HIV/AIDS, Hank Anderson Backstory, Head Injury, Headcanon, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Hook-Up, Incestuous Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, Intimacy, Intrusive Thoughts, Loss of Innocence, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Masturbation, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Molestation, Multi, Other, Overdosing, Panic Attacks, Parent Death, Please don't read this if you're easily triggered, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape, Razors, Rejection, Religion, Religious Guilt, Same-Sex Marriage, Scars, Self Loathing, Self-Discovery, Self-Doubt, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Assault, Sexual Experimentation, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Sexuality Crisis, Stranger Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Teenagers, Timeline What Timeline, Top Hank Anderson, Underage Rape/Non-con, VHS Pornography, Vomiting, did i project a lot of my trauma onto hank? yes, i'll label each chapter with the applicable warnings just in case, is that a healthy way to deal with said trauma? perhaps not, it's emotionally brutal either way, open casket, religious homophobia, sorry i broke the revolution timeline y'all but it had to be done, this is basically a huge trigger warning the entire way through</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:27:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,862</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25793836</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nextgeneration/pseuds/nextgeneration</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Struggling with post-traumatic stress, self harm, and substance abuse has undoubtedly taken its toll on Hank's mental (and physical) health. While the world around him continues to move forward, he's stuck knee-deep in his past, drowning on land.</p><p>A long and arduous path of healing lies before him.</p><p>Thank you to @hack_generation and @skettibiscuit for proofreading, suggesting, and dealing with my bullshit. :)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hank Anderson &amp; Connor, Hank Anderson &amp; Original Male Character(s), Hank Anderson/Connor, Hank Anderson/Original Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Warning -- the following chapter contains suicidal thoughts, panic attacks, and alcohol.</p><p>Recommended listening: "Sweet Hibiscus Tea," Penelope Scott.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>4:03 AM, September 12, 2038</b>
</p><p>“Good morning, Lieutenant Hank,” The receptionist android at the Detroit Police Station chirps. It’s four in the morning, but despite the time, she’s grinning from ear to ear. Any sane person would realize that Hank wants to be left alone. But she isn’t a real person, is she? Hank supposes her uncanny chipperness makes sense, in a fucked up, roundabout way.</p><p>“You can shove that ‘good morning’ of yours up your ass,” The exhausted Lieutenant grumbles in reply. He rubs his tired eyes with calloused fingers, clearing his throat and shaking his jacket out as he passes through the turnstile. His beard is long overdue for a trim, and it’s clear that he hasn’t showered in over a week.</p><p>It’s not her fault he’s pissy -- it's been days since he's been able to fall asleep for longer than ten minutes at a time.</p><p>His dark moods have been surfacing more frequently as of recent, and Hank wouldn’t be able to say <i>why</i> if he had a gun held to his head… not that he’d <i>want</i> to say much in that situation, anyhow. It’s a wonder that he’s managed to stick it out for as long as he has. Hell, he used to be convinced that he wouldn’t make it past age sixteen.</p><p>As always, Hank’s thoughts refuse to budge from death. His own death, of course. He often daydreams about scenarios where he doesn’t have to be the one to take action -- about times where another person takes the initiative and ends it all -- and God, wouldn’t that be <i>lovely?</i> It’s quite morbid, Hank is well aware, but he’s too chickenshit to act on his feelings, anyway. Even when he wants to die more than he wants to drink, he can’t bring himself to pull the fuckin’ trigger.</p><p>Hank shuffles to the break room, which is miraculously empty. It makes sense, he supposes. It’s a Sunday. The department’s virtually dead. There are <i>maybe</i> four human officers on duty right now, and there’s nobody in the office. Hank stands in front of the coffee machine and presses a button, letting the brew splatter into his mug. He’s <i>so</i> tired. Dead on his feet, in more ways than one. But despite his exhaustion, his brain remains a bubbling cesspool of shit. He's swirling down into a whirlpool of mounting dread. Undiluted panic is building in his chest. <i>Fuck.</i></p><p>Hank sits down at the table, stirring his coffee with a plastic spoon, and his legs jounce mindlessly as he struggles to breathe. His heart is racing in his chest and beating in his ears, and he tries to focus his attention on the steam rising from his drink. Hank’s anxiety swells in his chest as he remembers the pain from his past. He doesn’t <i>want</i> to remember. Why can’t those awful memories just go away? He isn’t in danger anymore, so why does his mind refuse to forget?</p><p>A knot swells in Hank’s throat as he shoves a tense hand into his coat pocket, rustling around until his trembling fingers find the little shot bottle. It’s filled with hard liquor -- watermelon flavored vodka, to be precise. He always makes sure to keep a little on him in case of emergency. And if this wasn’t an emergency, Hank didn’t know what was.</p><p>Even though he knows he’s alone, Hank still feels like somebody’s eyes are on him. Staring him down, undressing him with their gaze, devouring him with their thoughts. He looks left and right, and then behind him, a shiver shooting up through his spine. He’s finally satisfied that he’s alone -- or, more accurately, he's as satisfied as someone with a growing ball of paranoia gnawing at his chest <i>can</i> be. He pops off the tiny cap with a fingernail and downs the alcohol in a single swallow, his mind spinning. His deeply buried trauma threatens to grab him by the throat and choke him until he's blue.</p><p>“Come on, just a little more,” Hank mutters, feeling every pocket in his coat. He pulls out old receipts, his wallet, and even a years-old movie ticket, but it’s all for naught. He reluctantly hunches over the table in the break room, alone, burying his face in his folded arms. A suffocating sense of impending doom is sucking him down, deeper and deeper, until he feels like he’s collided with the center of the Earth.</p><p>Hank shuts his eyes. He wishes he weren’t here. Not now. Not <i>ever.</i></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning -- the following chapter contains minor injury and nostalgia.</p><p>Recommended listening: "Our House," Madness.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>5:21 PM, July 25, 1989</b>
</p><p>“Henry Thomas Anderson, get back here right now!” The voice of his mother is shrill and sharp, but it’s also loving. Melissa Anderson watches her children from the family’s front porch. Hank is being chased by his brother, Isaac, who is three years Hank’s elder (and twice his speed) at six years old. The boys’ two older brothers, Michael and Jacob, have taken off on a bike ride. The hot sun beats down on Hank’s skin, and pink and white chalk coats his fingers. The colorful dust peppers his blonde hair and smears across his face, and little brown freckles cover his arms. He emits a piercing loud screech as Isaac “tags” him, and the two of them take off at full speed to race across the driveway.</p><p>Before he can get too far, Isaac stumbles in the grass, gravity getting the best of him. Hank’s luck is not so fortunate. Seeing his older brother fall, he, too, falters, his vision spinning out of control before he falls onto his knees. His delicate, freckled flesh is torn atop the hot, gray concrete, and fresh blood drips out of the open wound. He wails, fat, salty tears, which pour from his eyes and leave his grimy cheeks wet and soggy. Isaac tries to keep him quiet, but Hank can hear his mother rouse from the deck and approach. She peels her youngest son off of the ground, cradling and bouncing him in her arms.</p><p>“I told you this would happen,” Melissa says, her stern voice soothing Hank. Isaac stares up at the younger boy, scowling and pouting with crossed arms as their game of tag comes to a premature end. “This is why you listen to your mother, Henry. You come in, too, Isaac.”</p><p>Hank’s mother takes him inside and sets him up on the bathroom counter, his little feet coming to rest in the polished china sink. She turns on the tap, her well-manicured hands cupping the water before pouring it over his wounds. It’s cold, and it stings, but Hank doesn’t complain. His tears have completely dried by the time she’s finished placing matching Scooby Doo band aids on his knees. </p><p>His mother then tucks him and his brother into bed to nap, but she stays sitting at the edge of the mattress. Hank is still awake, and he hears the radio at the end of the hallway playing quietly. His mind is racing, and residual adrenaline from the fall still courses through his tiny body.</p><p>The man on the radio rattles off bits and pieces of news from that August 9th, 1989, before casually mentioning heavy rainfall in the Detroit metro area. Hank’s mother worries aloud that her husband won’t make it home before dinner and wanders out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind her. Hank rests his thumb in his mouth and suckles gently, finally drifting off into a wonderful, carefree slumber.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning -- the following chapter contains animal death, grief, suicidal thoughts, mentions of self harm, and mentions of flashbacks.</p><p>Recommended listening: "Boys Don't Cry," The Cure.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>10:13 AM, September 13, 2038</b>
</p><p>It’s the next day, and Hank is at home -- as always, he is alone. His life is painfully monotonous, and even new, exciting cases coming across his desk are failing to pique his interest. Work had always been the one thing he could look forward to. Sure, he and Sumo have their little routine: the dog wakes him up every day at six to go on a walk, and then he gets his typical two cups of kibble. After that, Hank usually crawls back into his bed and tries to sleep for another few hours. But even <i>that</i> isn't enough to keep him stable.</p><p>Hank pets Sumo’s head. The hound’s long, smooth fur is a delight to feel beneath his hands. Hank grunts as his dog sneezes on him without warning. Sumo’s head shakes wildly, his long ears flapping against his skull. Wisps of fur float into the air, and then Hank sneezes, too, his eyes watering. The dog flinches at the sound -- he doesn’t quite know what to make of it. <i>He should probably get brushed, then, huh?</i> Hank pats the couch with his hand, and Sumo follows his instruction, bounding up onto the couch beside him. He’s got a stupid little doggy grin, and he’s panting slightly. A fleck of drool plops onto the couch, but Hank doesn’t care.</p><p>As he rakes the brush through Sumo’s fur, Hank finds himself lost in thought for the hundredth time this morning. None of said thoughts are good, of course.</p><p>He’s thinking about the time he ran over a bird -- he was driving right towards it, and expected it to fly away, because that’s what they’d always done before. But instead, this poor sap just stood there in the middle of the road, dumbfounded, and made absolutely no effort to move. When it met the bottom of Hank’s tire, a horrifying crunch came along with it. When Hank looked back, the once-living creature was nothing but a patch of raw meat and feathers.</p><p>He’d come back a few hours later to bury it, and much to his horror, he found another bird by its side -- alive, but certainly not well. It sat squarely beside the other’s mutilated carcass, which had begun teeming with flies in the summer heat. Hank had a few tears escape his eyes immediately after he had killed it, but once he came back and saw the other bird, he fully cried, snot-nosed, weepy anguishing. He agonized about the terrible loss that the other bird was going through, having been witness to a senseless and brutal death, all because dumbfuck-McGee didn’t turn his wheel. That bird had haunted his mind for days after the incident, even to the point where it occupied his thoughts at work. He couldn’t stop remembering the pain he had caused.</p><p>There was a metaphor in there somewhere, Hank had come to realize. Maybe the bird <i>let</i> itself die. It could see the tire coming towards it, but it just sat back and let it happen. He’d like to think the bird had been like him -- a suicidal idiot who couldn’t face his problems in life, and so chose death -- but oh, what the fuck, it was just a bird. It was probably ill. Hank’s ex-husband had tried to console him by reminding him that he was just another link in a chain,  assisting the inevitability of evolution. Unsurprisingly, his offer of sympathy didn’t help.</p><p>Hank yanks tufts of fur out of the dog brush, the bristles poking into his fingertips. “I could make a fuckin’ rug with all of this, Sumo,” Hank says with a lump in his throat. Sumo stares up at him, completely and utterly oblivious, his tongue sticking out between his teeth. <i>Oh, to be a blindly obedient, easily excitable dog.</i> It really would be a dream come true, at least in Hank’s eyes. Anything to escape his thoughts.</p><p>Dogs probably don’t have flashbacks, just like birds probably aren’t suicidal. And Hank would bet money that neither of them would slit their wrists or drink to excess, either.</p><p>Hank curls up next to Sumo, burying his face in the dog’s freshly brushed fur. It’s a nightmare for his nose, and his eyes begin to itch. His allergies are making it difficult to breathe.</p><p>He isn’t sure why, but he starts to cry, his tears rolling out of his stinging eyes and dribbling down through Sumo’s fur. If the dog notices the growing wetness on his belly, he doesn’t care. Sumo doesn’t stir, and neither does Hank. They lay together on the couch for an hour, the silence punctuated only by crackling breaths coming through Hank’s swollen, runny nose.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning -- the following chapter contains a graphic and extremely triggering recall of child-on-child sexual abuse, and vomiting.</p><p>Recommended listening: "My Beloved Monster," Eels.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>3:14 PM, September 8, 1992</b>
</p><p>It’s two days after Hank’s seventh birthday, and the party is still fresh on his mind. He’s accompanied on his walk home from school by his eldest brother, Michael, who doesn’t seem to mind that Hank is babbling incessantly about the copy of Super Mario Kart he was gifted. Michael is six feet tall at fifteen years old, and he’s a beacon of knowledge, wisdom, and great power. He listens patiently to his youngest brother as they walk home, Hank’s hand squeezed tightly in his. Hank’s opposite hand is occupied by his plastic Batman lunch pail. He ate a PB&amp;J for lunch today, and his mom packed him an extra cookie. He loves her. He loves his brothers. He loves his father. He loves his friends. He loves his life.</p><p>Michael leads them a bit off the beaten path. “Let’s go on an adventure,” He suggests to Hank. He has a spray of blistering acne across his face, and he’s a full two feet taller than his youngest brother. Hank follows him off of the sidewalk and through the dense thicket, brushing low-hanging branches away from his face. They are drawing closer to the creek, and Hank is still blissfully oblivious. He’s overjoyed to see little purple dragonflies flitting around the bushes. Hank’s brother drops his hand, and the seven year-old doesn’t care, reaching down to grip a stone and throw it into the river. He giggles at the splash it makes, and then turns around.</p><p>Michael’s pants are around his ankles, and he’s showing Hank something he isn’t supposed to see. Hank knows this isn’t meant to be happening, but he can’t do anything -- his body is frozen in place. “Come on,” Michael sniffs, glancing up in alarm when he hears voices of passers-by on the sidewalk. Hank can’t tell who the voices belong to, but as soon as they come, they're gone. The two of them are alone once again, only accompanied by the quiet sounds of the rushing crick.</p><p>Hank’s older brother forces him to touch it. It’s hard, like a stone. Hank wants to be done, but before he can pull away, his head is grabbed by his brother. He’s more startled than anything else, and it seems that his brother is, too, because his nostrils flare and he makes a sound. Hank’s stomach churns when something warm meets his tongue. It tastes bad, like rotten pool water.</p><p>As soon as his brother releases his hair from his grip, Hank whips himself around, collapsing to the ground. Pebbles dig into his palms as he throws up into the river, stomach acid and remnants of his lunch splashing into the current. Hank cries out loudly, fear and shame quivering in his voice. Between snot bubbles and tears, Hank tells the taller figure that he didn’t like what had just happened. Michael rubs his back, and he flinches under the unwanted touch. “It’s all going to be okay. Hey, look at me. It’s going to be fine.”</p><p>Michael is a liar.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning -- the following chapter contains flashbacks, cutting, scars, and alcohol.</p><p>Recommended listening: "Oh Klahoma," Jack Stauber.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2:06 PM, September 22, 2038</b>
</p><p>Hank shoots up from a dead sleep behind his desk, sweat dripping across his forehead and onto the papers pinned beneath his arms. His hands are clammy, and strands of his silver hair are pasted to the skin on his cheeks. His tongue is dry, and he can hear nothing but his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. No. No. <i>No. No no no NO <b>NO.</b></i></p><p>Okay, okay, damage control. Hank can’t see as he stands -- his vision is almost entirely black, like he’s staring through a dark, empty tunnel -- but he rises anyway, navigating the room by muscle memory. He rushes out to his car, hands buried deep in his empty pockets, and his stomach churns violently. He hasn’t had the chance to buy any more booze. “Have a great day, Lieutenant,” He can barely hear the receptionist chirp behind him above the high-pitched ringing in his ears. His vision is still blurry. He doesn’t reply.</p><p>Hank walks through the parking lot with unsteady feet, balancing himself against the parked cars. He arrives at his sedan and tries to unlock it, his hands shaking as he turns the keys. He crumbles when he hits the driver’s seat, slamming the door and choking on his spit. He tries to ground himself, digging his fingernails into his palms, but his head is still spinning, the car’s interior whirling around him.</p><p>He can still remember the taste.</p><p>It won’t leave his mouth.</p><p>No. No. <i>No.</i></p><p>Hank turns around, fumbling his arm around in the back seat of his car, searching for anything he can find.</p><p><i>Ah.</i> Fuckin’ splendid. His palm is sliced open as he accidentally grips a loose razor blade buried beneath an ever-growing pile of long abandoned fast food bags. Blood drips down his wrist, running over the little peaks and valleys of long-healed scars. Damn, when was the last time he’d used one of these, anyway?</p><p>Hank picks the blade up between his fingertips and ponders it casually, his face grim and lined with wrinkles as he frowns. The last time was <i>maybe</i> a year ago. That year mark was something he could have celebrated, were he a sentimental person, but he just couldn’t bring himself to care.</p><p>There’s been enough time for the scars to turn white and blend in against the rest of his skin. If you didn’t look too closely, you probably wouldn’t even notice them. And that’s the beauty of alcohol, Hank figures. It rips apart his insides so he doesn’t have to rip apart his exterior. Any time he goes without one of his vices, he’ll inevitably fall back on the other.</p><p>There’s no alcohol to save him now. He knows better than to drive around with large amounts of liquor anywhere near him, unfortunately, because he’s not <i>that</i> much of an idiot. The lieutenant sucks the blood from his unintentional wound as he pushes up his sleeve with his free hand, rocking back and forth gently in the driver's seat. He can almost imagine his mother holding him in her arms, singing to him with her sweet soprano voice as she wipes away his tears.</p><p>Hank settles back and closes his eyes as he brings the thin metal blade to his inner wrist. He winces and hisses through his teeth.</p><p>He’d forgotten how much it stings.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning -- the following chapter contains discovery of pornography and religious homophobia.</p><p>Recommended listening: "We're a Happy Family," Ramones.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>7:43 PM, March 30, 1996</b>
</p><p>Hank is in his house playing with VHS tapes. He’s ten, and he’s home alone, which is a rare occasion. His brothers have gone outside to play, and his parents are out on a date at some fancy restaurant that probably served gross food, like mushrooms and fish. <i>Ew.</i> Not only the food seems disgusting to Hank -- it also disturbs him to think about his parents being intimate.</p><p>Curiosity has gotten the best of him. He isn’t usually allowed in his parents’ room, but they didn’t lock the door before they left, so he figured he should take a peek. Hank parses innocently through a pile he found in the corner of his dad’s closet. He can tell by the hiding spot that he wasn’t supposed to find these, and most <i>certainly</i> isn’t allowed to be touching them, but for whatever reason, he can’t stop himself. Forbidden knowledge is best learned without adult supervision, after all.</p><p>He pulls one out of the box. It’s labeled with a simple title, “BEAR MEETS OTTER,” in his father’s characteristic blocky handwriting. It seems to be pretty new -- the smell of sharpie on the tape is still fresh. “Why shouldn’t I watch it?” Hank wonders aloud, turning the tape over in his hands. The title does seem rather innocuous, after all.</p><p>He inserts the tape into the living room’s TV and presses play, sitting back on his feet, his eyes glued to the screen. The film crackles, static playing for a moment. Suddenly, a heavy-set young man is made visible. He’s covered from head to toe in hair, and he’s sporting a neatly preened mustache. He isn’t wearing any clothes. The camera pans, and a physically smaller man comes into frame. He’s reclining back on a white bed, and his leanly muscled body writhes beneath the hand of the larger man. The hairy man presses up against him, whispering something that Hank can’t quite make out, and the smaller man opens his mouth, a muffled moan gurgling out from the stereo.</p><p>Hank feels his face flush deep maroon as he realizes what’s happening in front of him. He scrambles up wildly from his sitting position and ejects the tape as quickly as he possibly can, his heart racing in his chest. He takes the tape into his hands, hyperventilating, and he turns his head to see his third oldest brother standing at the base of the stairs. His fingers are set lightly on the handrail, and his mouth is agape. <i>Crap.</i></p><p>“I wasn’t doing anything, I promise!” Hank stutters, tossing the tape away from him and leaning his body over the cardboard box, pressing the opened flaps down. His grey eyes search his brother’s face anxiously, and he visibly shakes. Hank is genuinely fearful, and luckily, his brother seems to recognize it in his voice.</p><p>“I won’t tell dad,” Isaac says in monotone, his blue eyes shifting across the room beneath choppy blond hair. He brings his arms down to his side and just stands there, not knowing what to say. He looks like a toy soldier, his body rigid and motionless. “You aren’t supposed to be looking at that stuff, you know,” Isaac mentions, as though Hank wasn’t already well aware. “You’re gonna have to pray. That’s what mother told me. Looking at things like that makes God angry, and he’ll send you to the Devil.” He doesn’t waver, his words warning his younger brother.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Hank says, and he really means it. Tears pool in his eyes, and he sits as still as he can, staring at the wall behind the television. Finally, Isaac turns around, making his way back up the stairs.</p><p>Hank throws the box to the side, tape upon tape scattering across the carpet. He brings his knees to his chest, his young heart aching, and lets himself cry.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning -- the following chapter contains suicidal thoughts, poor body image, self hatred, and self harm.</p><p>Recommended listening: "Weird Fishes," Radiohead.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>11:48 PM, October 3, 2038</b>
</p><p>Hank lets lukewarm water run over his body as he sits in his tub, the shower head turned on to maximum pressure. Even as the water batters him, he remains exhausted. His eyes are bloodshot -- undoubtedly a side effect of his insomnia -- and his skin is unnaturally pale. He can’t bring himself to look in the mirror. He doesn’t want to see what he has become.</p><p>He lets the back of his head rest against the tub wall, and he studies the body beneath him. It’s obese and grotesque, and certainly not what it used to be. Hank pinches his beer gut hard between his fingers, and his breath hitches in his throat. He can’t even see his cock beneath the fucking <i>lard</i> packed onto his abdomen. Not that it mattered much, anyway -- he was far too hideous to be considered even <i>remotely</i> desirable.</p><p>To tell the truth, his body doesn’t even feel like it’s his own anymore. It hasn’t felt that way for a long, long time. Most of his days are spent completely detached, like he’s seeing his life through someone else’s eyes. Despite this, he remains lost in his own thoughts. It’s terrible. If he lets himself feel, he’s destined to suffer, and if he dampens his emotions, he’s left completely blank. Hank doesn’t feel like a person. He’s more like a vessel of pure anguish.</p><p>His nails are disgustingly long, protruding well past the tips of his fingers, and his hair is matted and tangled. When he tries to run his fingers through it, they catch on the knotted snarls. The water runs over it, but it can’t seem to soak in all the way through to his scalp. He might as well shave it all off. It’s nothing short of a lost cause.</p><p>Despite being physically present in the shower, Hank can’t bring himself to grab the soap off of the ledge. His entire body aches for no discernible reason -- even just lying motionless at the base of the bath is physically demanding. He blinks once, staring blankly at the shower head.</p><p>Hank lifts his hand to the edge of the tub, his fingers curling to grip at a half-empty fifth of whiskey. He brings it to his lips without a second thought, mumbling something incoherent to no one in particular. His own voice bounces around in his head for a few moments before exiting his consciousness, and he can hear every movement his eyes make, a staticy, ringing oscillation in his skull. Everything is unreasonably loud. Even the dying lights above the bathroom mirror are an assault on the senses.</p><p>“Look at the state of you, you miserable idiot,” Hank spits at himself between swigs. He refuses to move his body, letting the water wash over his abdomen and around his thighs. “Can’t even take a goddamn shower right, <i>fuck,”</i> He clamps his lips together, setting his jaw as desperate tears sting behind his eyes. “And now you’re gonna fuckin’ cry about it, aren’t you? Gonna cry about your piss poor excuse of a life, huh?” Hank predicts his actions well, and the brimming tears boil over, running down his cheeks and washing away as soon as they come beneath the falling water.</p><p>Hank lifts his head up for a moment, only to slam the base of it against the wall, his ears ringing in the immediate aftermath. For a second, it dampens the noise of his too-loud thoughts. He does it again, and again, focusing on keeping the rest of his body still as he self-destructs. The cracking sound that rings through his skull on impact is a welcome change from the deafening inner Hell he’s created for himself.</p><p>He would truly be a freer man in death.</p><p>Finally, Hank’s thoughts are quieted, at least for the moment, and he rests his face up against his right shoulder, breathing shallowly as the flowing water pools in his navel.</p><p>By some miracle, he falls asleep with the shower still on. The liquor bottle lies pinned between his belly and the side of the tub, and he snores loudly, resting peacefully beneath the barrage of ever-chilling water.</p><p>Sumo paws and whines at the locked door with concern, poking his snout under the bathroom door. There is no reply.</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Warning -- the following chapter contains (underage) teenage sexuality, hook ups, religious homophobia, and panic attacks.</p><p>Recommended listening: "Millennium," Robbie Williams.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p>
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    <p>
  <b>11:24 PM, December 31, 1999</b>
</p><p>The bass booms out from the speakers and the room around him shakes. Hank is leaning against the wall of someone’s parents’ house. Whose it is, he can’t exactly say. All he knows, in his well-past inebriated state, is that it’s New Year’s Eve, 1999. The turn of a century, and perhaps the end of the world. He wouldn’t mind. He swirls the brandy in his cup and clears his throat with discomfort at the noise, scanning the packed room with curious eyes.</p><p>In the middle of the dance floor is the most beautiful man he’s ever seen -- a boy not much older than him with piercing blue eyes and mousy brown hair. He’s thin, much thinner than Hank, and easily three inches shorter. Despite his height, he seems to be commanding the attention of their surrounding peers, who cheer him on. The boy looks briefly in Hank’s direction and smiles, his white teeth glimmering in the low lighting. Hank’s heart catches in his throat, and before he can smile back, he turns away, ashamed of his own thoughts. His parents are devoutly Catholic, and they think he is, too -- if they knew how he felt, and who he felt <i>for</i>, they would be more than distraught.</p><p>He relieves himself to the bathroom, turning his shoulders to the side to squeeze through the ever shifting crowd, and ascends the steps, deliberately keeping his gaze fixed on the door at the top of the stairs.</p><p>Once inside, Hank rinses his hands first, and then brings them up to his face, wiping his eyes and mumbling to himself. He’s making an active effort to ignore his growing arousal -- it isn’t safe in <i>any</i> way shape or form for him to feel like this, especially about another man. He sits on the edge of the tub and buries his face in his hands. He’s sweating profusely beneath his brand new sweater, and his head is spinning.</p><p>Hank hears a knock on the door, and he nearly jumps out of his skin, his head shooting up in shock. Before he has the chance to stand, the door creaks open. A familiar pair of bright blue eyes meet his, and his pulse quickens. It’s <i>him.</i></p><p>Hank is at a loss for words. “Hey,” he tries lamely, swallowing and bringing a fingernail to his mouth. They stare at each other, sexual tension hanging heavy in the air. Shit, he doesn’t even know this guy’s <i>name</i> and he already wants to jump his bones. <i>Jeez Louise.</i> Hank crosses one of his legs over the other, and he feels sweat dripping down the side of his body beneath his argyle sweater. He looks like a total dweeb, and this guy looks like a walking adonis.</p><p>“How are you?” The other boy speaks, his turquoise eyes sparkling beneath the vanity’s fluorescent lights. His voice is sweet and clear, and smooth, and it drips from his mouth like honey. He sits on the floor, cross-legged, in front of Hank, studying the other’s eyes carefully. The boy bites his lip for a moment, cocking his head and leaning his weight back on his palms. He smiles warmly, seemingly beckoning the other with a patient gaze. “You’re kinda cute.”</p><p>Before he can stop to think it over, Hank leans forward and grasps the other’s face. Soon, it’s lips against lips, awkward and clumsy, but not unpleasant. The other leans into Hank’s advance, dragging his fingers down the knit of Hank’s sweater and over the fly of his jeans. He doesn’t stumble as he moves, and his fingers are confident and diligent -- he’s obviously done this before. Hank can’t say the same for himself.</p><p>Hank flinches as a hand moves past his zipper and onto his erection, which is just barely concealed behind the waistband of his boxer briefs. He grips the bottom of the other boy’s NIRVANA tee, and then his hands slip beneath. The other’s stomach is taut and smooth, and a faint line of hair leads from his navel to his…</p><p>Hank draws back from the kiss as he feels skin against his cock. He bites his lip and tips himself back to rest against the bathtub. The other’s eyes glimmer, and he drags his palm up Hank’s length. Precum dribbles down onto Hank’s sweater. <i>Damn it.</i></p><p>It couldn’t have been more than four seconds before Hank was fully reclined and his cock was in the mystery man’s mouth. His toes curl in his converse and he lets out a gentle moan, reaching up to clutch the other’s hair. He pushes his head down and grunts as the boy throats him, burying his nose in Hank’s pubes. The twitching of a hot throat around him becomes too much, and Hank shudders, finishing unintentionally in the other’s mouth.</p><p>He leans back to catch his breath and pets the other’s hair again, post-O shockwaves coursing through his body. The other neatly tucks Hanks goods back into place and pulls up his zipper, fastening the button. He was kind and gentle. <i>Hank liked that.</i></p><p>As soon as good things come, of course, they leave. The thin boy stands and exits the bathroom with a smirk, like nothing had happened, and Hank’s heart soars. What did that mean? Hank has absolutely no idea. But he knows that it felt right. It felt <i>pleasant.</i> If he wanted to be dramatic, he would say it felt like heaven on Earth. He pushes himself up, dusting off his clothing, and stares in the mirror. His face is flushed. So are his ears. Sweat drips from below his hairline. <i>Great.</i> Now he looks even <i>less</i> chalant than he had before.</p><p>The longer he stares, the more his emotions plummet. He’s hit with a sudden wave of guilt as he sees his physical state, hot and sweaty, with the taste of another man’s mouth on his tongue… what if they could tell what he had done? Would they be able to? He can practically hear his mother’s sobs and his father’s shouts, the imaginary noise bouncing around in his brain.</p><p>Suddenly, the walls begin to close in, and it’s getting hard to breathe. Hank shoots out of the bathroom and down the stairs. If the guy he’d just hooked up with was still there, he didn’t see him, but it didn’t make him any less anxious. Hank stumbles out the front door, accidentally bumping into a nicely-dressed girl. “Hey, asshole, you spilled my drink!” She shouts in his direction, but Hank doesn’t hear her.</p><p>Rain hits his skin and wets his hair, running down his nose and over his lips. He passes the lamp post flooding the front yard with light and breaks into a sprint, running as fast as his legs can carry him. The wet gravel crunches beneath his shoes, and his heartbeat is pounding in his ears. He runs away from the house with no destination in mind, and the party’s once overwhelming music slowly fades away.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning -- the following chapter contains mention of alcohol, cutting, childhood abuse, and internalized homophobia.</p><p>Recommended listening: "Break My Stride," Matthew Wilder.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>10:12 AM, November 6, 2038</b>
</p><p>“Listen, asshole, if it was up to me, I’d throw the lot of you in a dumpster and set a match to it.” Hank pauses only to take a breath, his hands still clutching the android’s work jacket. “So stop pissing me off,” Hank spits in his new partner’s face, his eyes flaming with unbridled rage. “Or things are gonna get nasty.” He drops the android back onto the ground, and it seems entirely unfazed, clearly oblivious to the blatant threat the human had made. He’s still seeing red as another officer approaches him from behind, telling him something about a sighting of a wanted AX400. Hank mutters a generic reply, and his cold grey eyes burn a hole in the android’s skull.</p><p>When he turns away, his mind is still racing, bouncing between a host of terrifying thoughts. Mostly, he’s incredibly intimidated -- he used to have quite the name for himself in the department, before <i>everything</i> happened all at once. Fuckin’ A, he used to be lauded for doing so much as taking a piss, but once his world crumbled around him and settled at his feet, his facade of perfection did, too.</p><p>It <i>was</i> a facade, after all. He’d been dealing with liquor as far back as academy, and he had been cutting himself regularly since his teenhood. He couldn’t escape the torment of his childhood -- Hank’s abuser was constantly present in his life, still adored and cherished by his family, and he was expected to look that man in the eyes and pretend that nothing had ever happened. What the fuck was a kid <i>supposed</i> to do but find some kind of escape?</p><p>But here he was, a thoroughly broken man, being paired with a walking, talking embodiment of perfection. It all feels like some kind of sick joke. That thing is <i>perfect,</i> from it’s ridiculous swooped-up hair to it’s dumb fucking dress shoes. It’s thin, and chiseled, and conventionally attractive. Not to mention it has the mind of a goddamned <i>supercomputer.</i> How on Earth is he supposed to compete with that?</p><p>Part of the immediate loathing, Hank figures, also comes from his interest in it, no matter how superficial it may be. It isn’t something he can help, despite what his old family would like to believe. He knows in logical terms that his frequent rejection of his own sexuality isn’t healthy -- like, at all -- but self hatred has been so deeply ingrained in him that he can’t seem to get rid of it. Hell, he’d even struggled with internalized homophobia during his fifteen years of marriage to his husband. It’s been decades since he realized he was gay, and somehow, he <i>still</i> hasn’t been able to come to grips with it.</p><p>The android hurries up behind Hank -- he can tell that it’s following him by the incessant clacking of its stupid cap-toe Oxfords against the smooth concrete floor -- and it decides to resuscitate their previous conversation, Hank’s brutally obvious social cues evidently flying right over its head.</p><p>“I am not trying to threaten you with my presence, Lieutenant, but if we’re going to be paired with one another for this investigation, we’re going to have to get along.” It chirps in its stupid, nasally voice. He can practically imagine its head cocking to the side as it waits for his answer. Hank bites his tongue and decides not to give it one, opting instead to take long strides out of the department’s front door.</p><p>It’s then that the android seems to finally take the hint, the LED on its temple whirring yellow. It follows Hank to his car obediently and opens the passenger door, climbing inside and settling itself into the seat. Hank can’t help but notice the way its dark chestnut hair shines, fleeting glints of amber glimmering beneath the light of the setting sun.</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning -- the following chapter contains (underage) teenage sexuality, denial of sexual orientation, lying, and dissociation.</p><p>Recommended listening: "Tom Sawyer," Rush.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>6:15 PM, April 27, 2002</b>
</p><p>Hank leans back against the headrest and blows smoke from his mouth, resting his hand on his car’s exterior. It’s a silver 1997 Dodge Neon, complete with a crumpled dent on the rear passenger door and a frequently stumbling engine. Even with all of its flaws, it’s Hank’s pride and joy -- he bought it himself, with his own hard-earned money. Pretty impressive for a sixteen year old, if you asked him. He stares out the window at the setting sun and sighs.</p><p>“Hank?” His girlfriend chirps from the passenger seat. She’s a dark haired cheerleader with grey eyes and a winning smile. A hot commodity, to put it in the crudest of terms. Hank’s older brother was the one who pushed him into asking her out, despite his complete lack of interest. Or maybe because of it. It was pretty unusual for a boy his age to be single, especially considering his relative popularity.</p><p>“Yeah?” Hank replies halfheartedly, flicking ash from the cigarette onto the pavement beneath them. He can’t force himself to meet her eyes. She’s objectively an attractive woman, sure, but… she isn’t for him. It isn’t her fault, by any means. It really isn’t anybody’s fault but his own. Hank struggles with his sexuality, though he takes great care to not show it outwardly. For all intents and purposes, he appears to be like any other painfully average straight guy, just without the endless hookups and occasional teenage pregnancy.</p><p>She can tell that he is lost in thought, and she puts her elbow down, palm up, on the center console. Hank’s hand drifts absentmindedly to meet hers. It <i>is</i> what’s expected of him, of course.</p><p>“Do you wanna fuck me?” She asks quietly, biting her lip and looking up at him. Hank freezes as the words leave her mouth, and his entire body is stuck in place. <i>Ah, shit.</i> This conversation went exactly where Hank <i>didn’t</i> want it to go, even though he knew it was inevitable. His throat closes, and he bites his tongue in his mouth, closing his eyes for a moment.</p><p>“Yeah,” He murmurs, forcing his head to turn. <i>See, she isn’t bad looking, dumbass. What’s wrong with you?</i> He notices that his hands are going numb, and he clears his throat. “Yeah, I do.” The lie comes to his lips before he can even stop to mull the question over.</p><p>She doesn’t hesitate, dropping her hand to Hank’s zipper and leaning in to kiss his lips. He begrudgingly keeps quiet, going through the motions, but his eyes stay open as she sucks at his bottom lip. He pushes the seat back and spreads his legs, one hand clenching the side of the leather seat with white knuckles. His heart rate goes through the roof, and he feels like he’s going to be sick.</p><p>She swings her body over him and squats in his lap, unbuttoning his pants and retrieving his soft cock. She pulls at it and leans forward, pressing her chest against his, planting gentle kisses on his neck. Hank can’t bring himself to reciprocate, and instead chooses to sit in deafening silence, placing a lame and unenthused hand on her waist. The undeniable feeling of dissociation creeps up on him as he feels her touches. It feels awful. Hank grows painfully aware of how flaccid he is, but no matter how hard he focuses -- or, conversely, how freely he lets his mind wander -- nothing is happening.</p><p>After a few minutes of fruitless wristwork, she finally lets go, defeated and quite clearly hurt. Without speaking to him, she pushes herself off of his lap and crawls back into the passenger seat. She retrieves her purse from the floor and cracks the door open, being careful not to meet Hank’s gaze as shame stings in her eyes. “I’ll walk,” She says quietly, her voice cracking, and she steps out of the car, steadying herself in her platform shoes.</p><p>Hank’s vocal chords feel like they’ve been superglued together, and his body is heavy. He doesn’t get out of the car to apologize or explain himself -- how could he? He can’t be genuine without being abandoned by his family and rejected by the world. He likes men, and he <i>doesn’t</i> like women, no matter how hard he tries to pretend. It’s impossible to admit. The thought is too scary to bear, and as she walks onto the sidewalk and down the side of the road, Hank cries real tears. Not for the loss of his girlfriend, no -- but for the loss of his sincerity, and the suppression of his truth.</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>No warnings here. This chapter contains pretty harmless smut. Reminder that I've warped the revolution's timeline pretty severely. Sorry about that.</p><p>Recommended listening: "Take a Slice," Glass Animals.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>9:53 PM, November 9, 2038</b>
</p><p>Hank is reclined on his bed, his body propped up by a few pillows, feeling himself through his boxer shorts with a tentative hand. Usually, he wasn’t in any sort of headspace to entertain sexual thoughts, what with his chronic feelings of emptiness and general disillusionment with life. Today, though, he feels up for it.</p><p>He and his department-assigned android partner had gone into the Eden Club a few days ago -- which, admittedly, wasn’t somewhere Hank had ever thought he’d end up. It was for a homicide investigation, of course, and he knew that should’ve been where his focus was, but he couldn’t help but be captivated by something else.</p><p>That android partner of his, Connor; he’d stopped just inside the entrance to stare at another android, a muscled male model with dark hair and a broad chest. Had Hank been younger, he may have stopped, too -- the thing was truly stunning. He’d caught Connor staring, and when he asked what he was doing, he’d replied with “Coming, Lieutenant.” The humor of his phrasing hadn’t escaped Hank, though he’d managed to bite his tongue at the time.</p><p>He can’t help but wonder what Connor had been thinking when he was staring at that chiseled body. He didn’t know if he even could think, in that sense of the word. He was probably just taking a break to run a diagnostic or something. Hank doesn’t know shit about androids, so he wouldn’t know.</p><p>The gentle hand roamed deeper, pressing below his waistband. Hank feels the twitch of his arousal against his palm, and he sighs, rubbing at his shaft lightly and tracing the head with his thumb. His swollen cock responds with an appreciative bounce.</p><p>It’s not long before his mind wanders further into the unknown -- Hank is imagining hot breath tickling his neck, bony knees propped up on either side of his thighs. Himself and his android lover frotting against each other, sweet sweat trickling down Connor’s chest and into his navel… breathy moans burbling from the android’s mouth as Hank wraps a hand around their touching lengths. Connor had insisted he was fully functional, after all.</p><p>Soon enough, the android would settle delicately between Hank’s thighs, licking stripes up his cock with a wet, warm, nearly-human tongue, stopping to pause at his frenulum and take it all in. In reality, Hank’s rough, familiar hand is a pathetic second to the feeling of a mouth. It’s a sensation he hasn’t felt in years, and he misses it.</p><p>Hank can almost feel the tender, svelte musculature of Connor’s ass shifting under his hand as the android writhes beneath him, their lips joining and separating again. Hank eases a lone finger into Connor, and the android purrs, wrapping his arms around the lieutenant’s neck and whispering sweet nothings. He arches his back as Hank’s finger curls inside of him, and soon, his legs, too, are around Hank’s body. He’s doused in sweat and bathing in pheromones, begging and pleading for the human to take his virginity…</p><p>Hank allows himself the pleasure of release only a few minutes in, moaning louder than he intended to as a few spurts of cum miss his waistband and cling to the hair on his lower abdomen. He massages his cock as ripples of residual bliss echo through his body, and he sighs deeply. The tension in his shoulders is gone, if only for a moment, and it seems like everything might be alright.</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning -- the following chapter contains social anxiety, alcoholism, and panic attacks.</p><p>Recommended listening: "It's The End Of The World As We Know It," R.E.M.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>12:52 AM, June 2, 2007</b>
</p><p>The bass is pumping and everybody’s dancing… everyone <i>besides</i> Hank, of course, who remains as stoic as he always is. He’s just graduated from the police academy with the rest of his class, but he’s finding it hard to celebrate. He’s trying to go without his liquid courage, as downing a pint of whiskey every single day has been getting to him. He’s chronically fatigued, and so are his parents. They can tell that he’s unhappy, but they never offer any solutions beyond empty words and meaningless prayers. Hank’s nose twitches, and he stays leaned against the wall, silent and brooding.</p><p>“C’mon, Anderson,” He hears a classmate crow, beckoning him with his arms. “Get on the floor and shake it!” The rest of the party, in their drunken stupor, hoots and hollers, chanting with glee. <i>Hank! Hank! Hank!</i> The room echoes, and he nearly dies of embarrassment. He pushes himself off of the wall and his shoes clack against the floor as he approaches the center of the room. His heartbeat is pounding in his close-shaven throat, and he tries fruitlessly to prevent himself from panicking.</p><p>“Someone give me a shot,” He grumbles aloud, pressing his hands to his face. His hair is still buzzed short, and he’s wearing a too-loose suit and mismatched tie. This whole experience was enough to catapult his anxiety to its boiling point. He can feel the room’s eyes all over his body, and he’s sweating. The disco ball on the ceiling throws glittering light across the walls, only adding to his feeling that the room is spinning. Hank gladly accepts a shot of liquor that’s handed his way.</p><p>He can tell his classmates expect him to toast -- <i>shit!</i> He grimaces and bites his tongue, his mind clouded with shallowly buried fear. He breathes deeply, and to his horror, his hands begin to tremble. <i>Say something, idiot,</i> he hears. Whether it’s his own voice or the voice of someone else, he can only guess.</p><p>“To new beginnings!” He announces rather weakly, gritting his teeth. Thankfully, the room around him cheers, bodies flailing aimlessly to the sound of energetic 80s pop. <i>Why do they have to be so loud? And why do they have to care so much?</i> Hank would be much happier if he weren’t so pressured to keep up appearances -- his time and energy is entirely consumed by four things: trying to hide that he’s gay, trying to hide that he’s a budding alcoholic, trying to hide that he’s traumatized, and trying to hide that he’s not okay in the slightest.</p><p>Hank peers down at the alcohol in his hand, his heart pumping out of control. He knows that he won’t be able to corral his impulses once he opens the floodgates. But life only happens once, doesn’t it? <i>Ah, fuck it.</i> He downs the vodka in a single gulp with a straight face. The room around him cheers.</p><p>It may be hard liquor, but he’s used to it. His mouth doesn’t burn.</p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning -- the following chapter contains suicidal thoughts, flashbacks, and therapy, as well as mentions of child death and familial abandonment.</p><p>Recommended listening: "The Promise," When In Rome.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>6:36 PM, November 17, 2038</b>
</p><p>Hank collects the empty bottles off of his nightstand, flinching as they clink noisily against one another. He sets them gently in the bottom of the trash bag, pursing his lips as an unholy smell rises up into his nose. He wouldn’t be surprised if the accruing garbage has begun to mold. He’s embarrassed to admit that he hasn’t taken his trash out in over a month.</p><p>For a while now, Hank hasn’t been able to see a way out. His mind is almost always occupied by inescapable grief, and pain, and sorrow. The only reason he’s still alive and kicking is that he doesn’t want to cause Sumo or Connor any unneeded pain.</p><p>His friendship with the android is a new and unexpected development in his life. It’s not that they’re super close by any means, but they’re on good terms now, despite Hank’s less-than-friendly first impression. Connor still seems socially oblivious, and it’s apparent that he lacks a lot of essential data on the idea of context, but it doesn’t really bother Hank anymore. Innocent oblivion is a preferable alternative to his ex-husband’s constant scrutiny and distrust.</p><p>Hank supposes androids are the way that they are because they don’t have a past. It’s like they all hatched out of cocoons as fully-developed adults. Still, though, they’re missing the final key to true humanity -- the ability to make mistakes, and the propensity to regret them.</p><p>Hank is well aware that he ruminates on his mistakes far too often, so much so that it would be false to suggest that he’s living in the present. Most of his days are spent remembering the pain he wants so desperately to forget, and he just can’t escape it, no matter how deep he cuts, or how often he drinks. He’s more than a little envious of Connor’s proverbial blank slate.</p><p>They’d been sitting across from each other at work, and Hank couldn’t stop thinking. His mind was being swallowed into a whirlpool, and Connor had asked if he was alright. It was more than he could say for the rest of the department -- he’d been trapped in this cycle for years, after all. Anyone who knew him would expect for him to bristle at the inquiry. But something about the way the android asked the question made him stop and reconsider. Lashing out at someone so innocent would be like kicking a newborn puppy.</p><p>So Hank had confessed, words gushing from his mouth like he had sprung a leak. He admitted more than he’d ever told <i>anyone</i> in person, bemoaning his broken mind and his aching heart. He told Connor how his brother had hurt him, how his family had rejected him, and how when Cole died, he died, too, and the android’s LED whirred yellow, processing the sudden outpouring of raw emotion.</p><p>Connor, bless his soul, had said something about Hank seeking professional help, the reply sounding a lot less cold and calloused than it seemed to be on the surface. He was still running on pure logic, after all -- it’s what he was designed to do.</p><p>Hank had turned away without a response, humiliated by his show of vulnerability, but he thought about the android’s words for the rest of the day. He’d always considered himself a lost cause, somebody far too damaged to be repaired, like his old Neon had been when he totaled it back in academy. At best, his physical form could be picked apart and distributed to people who wanted a second chance. He didn’t think he was redeemable, but apparently Connor did. And that had to count for something, right?</p><p>Hank resumes gathering the scattered trash around his home, sweeping entire counters of clutter into the thirteen-gallon bag. Connor doesn’t know it yet, but he’s become one of the only reasons Hank has decided to stick around. He doesn’t have a partner, and he doesn’t have Cole, but that shouldn’t make death his only option.</p><p>Hank could feel the memory of his long-gone parents breathing down his neck as he set up an appointment with a new therapist over the phone. Even though he was all alone in his home, he was still mortified when asked about his struggles. Even briefly mentioning his problems was enough to bring tears to his eyes, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, a lump rising in his throat.</p><p>“This is really gonna hurt, huh?” Hank sniffled into the phone, clutching Sumo’s fur beneath his fingers.</p><p>“Probably,” His therapist replied in earnest. “But you’ll have to face it head on in order to heal from it.”</p>
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<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning -- the following chapter contains grief, flashbacks, phantom touch, funerals, vomiting, panic attacks, graphic description of corpses, and mention of child sexual assault, alcohol abuse, and AIDS.</p><p>Recommended listening: "Goodbye Stranger," Supertramp.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>3:05 PM, September 30, 2013</b>
</p><p>The organist plays a somber song, and Hank’s mother cries silently beside him. His father’s face is emotionless, and his eyes seem dead. That, Hank decides, is the purest form of sorrow -- something that leaves a person so empty that they want to join the loved one they’ve lost. Issac sits beside him, and Hank can see his eyes welling up, but the tears don’t spill over. Jacob reads the eulogy, his voice cracking into the microphone as he describes his late brother.</p><p>Hank can’t bring himself to cry, even when he sees his eldest brother lying in the casket. Michael’s eyes are sewn shut, and his face is caked with cosmetic powder. All these years later, and the mere sight of him still causes unadulterated panic to bubble over in Hank’s mind. He’s undoubtedly dead and gone, but Hank’s body still trembles. He can feel a slew of phantom touches across his body, flashbacks threatening to violate him all over again. His brain protected him from those memories for a few years, sure, but only a fool would think that those thoughts would be gone forever.</p><p>Hank isn’t dealing with the loss well. It’s his own flesh-and-blood’s funeral, for Christ’s sake, and he’s got booze on his breath to cope with it.</p><p>He found out a little over a week ago. His mother had called him, screaming hysterically, calling Michael’s name, begging for God to give back her little boy. He’d died from complications of AIDS and alcohol abuse, and when the police found his body in his apartment, it was shriveled and shrunken and weak, curled up against the white linen couch. A coworker told him that his corpse had been teeming with maggots. Hank wouldn’t have been surprised.</p><p>Today, though, his brother is as clean as a decedent can be, his dignity partially restored by a skilled mortician. The family walks in a tight line, passing by their loved one and giving their last goodbyes. Hank stares at Michael from behind Jacob, his tough facade wavering slightly. Most of his brother’s injuries have been repaired in one way or another, but nothing can completely obscure the purplish sarcomas scattered across his body. His abuser is nothing more than skin and bones, and the hands that once robbed Hank of his innocence are clasped over his bloated stomach. He’s usually okay with death, but today, Hank’s insides churn, and his lip quivers. He’s on edge, half expecting that his brother will awaken, but Michael doesn’t move.</p><p>“May Christ, the true Shepherd, embrace you as one of his flock,” Hank hears his mother say as she leans over her departed son. His ears are ringing, but even still, he drops to his knees next to her, wanting to provide any support he can. Hank holds her hand as she cries, and her tears stain Michael’s oversized suit. “May he forgive all your sins, and set you among those he has chosen,” she whispers, her voice wavering. Snot drools from her nose, and Hank rubs her back with an open hand. “May you see your Redeemer face to face, and enjoy the vision of God...”</p><p>Hank stands suddenly, trying to keep his vision from going black, and grips the pulpit with white knuckles, gasping for air. His fingernails dig into his palms, and he sees himself out, navigating the enormous room by sound and feel. He finds the bathroom, and the blinding fluorescents assault his already overwhelmed senses. He leans over the sink and heaves, genuine tears escaping his eyes for the first time in several years. He continues to gag, shaking violently, his clammy palms slipping against the porcelain vanity. Finally, something comes out. Hank retches, and the spotless white sink is stained with his stomach acid.</p><p>There was no closure, no apology, no satisfying finality to it all -- his brother had died alone in his living room, weak, helpless, and abandoned by his family. And for <i>what?</i></p><p>Hank was numb.</p>
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<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning -- the following chapter contains a graphic and extremely triggering suicide attempt, alcohol, guns, mention of child death, flashbacks, medication, and vomiting.</p><p>Recommended listening: "Alone Again (Naturally)," Gilbert O'Sullivan.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>8:58 PM, November 23, 2038</b>
</p><p>Hank steadies himself with his hands as he vomits into the toilet, bile splattering into the water below. His sinuses throb as tears brim in his eyes. Sumo sits beside him, and he bumps against Hank’s arm with his wet, black nose, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. The human’s eyes remain closed, and a muffled sound leaves his body before his stomach turns again. More of its contents expel from his body, and he groans quietly.</p><p>Today, he saw Connor die.</p><p>His partner had been trying to extract a confession out of a deviant in the Stratford tower, and the thing had gone insane. He wasn’t there to stop it, which he deeply regrets. The fucker stabbed Connor’s hand and ripped out his thirium pump. By the time Hank arrived, it was too late. All Connor could do was crawl a few feet and cry out Hank’s name from between parted lips. When he grabbed and cradled the android, promising him he would be fine, it felt all too similar to that fateful night in October of 2035. It was too much. Everything was too much.</p><p>Hank rises to his feet, stumbling back on his heels, and sifts through his sparsely stocked medicine cabinet with shaky hands. He finds a nearly full bottle of Tylenol, and he twists the lid off with trembling fingers. Hank shakes pills into his outstretched hand, spreading them across his palm. He studies them with a blank stare, and the little white tablets are calling his name, begging to be swallowed. He turns the sink’s handle and tips his head underneath, filling his mouth with water and swishing it around. He peers into the mirror behind strands of gray hair. Despite having deliberately brushed the snarls out a few days ago, Hank’s hair is knotted and oily once again.</p><p>Hank hesitates for a moment before pressing his hand to his mouth. The pills swirl around behind his teeth like a school of tiny fish. He swallows them, a painful lump growing in his throat, and he coughs, a dislodged pill dropping out of his mouth and bouncing around in the sink. He looks down at sweet Sumo, whose tail is wagging cheerfully, whacking against the wall with every swing. He lets out a small “boof!” and Hank’s heart cracks in two.</p><p>“I’m sorry, bud,” Hank whispers down at his dog, tears springing into his eyes.</p><p>Suddenly, alcohol is calling his name, and he staggers out to the kitchen. He swings the freezer open and grips a miraculously full bottle of Jack Daniels, twisting off the cap and flicking it onto the ground. A metallic ping sounds as it connects with the floor, and it slides underneath the stove. He squats on the tile, his eyes red and puffy, and he brings the freezing bottle up to his lips.</p><p>There’s nothing productive about his behavior. That’s what his therapist would tell him, at least. He’s lucid enough to remember that, but at the same time, he’s too out of control to stop himself. There is no logic at play in self harm, really. It’s just a byproduct of being swept up in a suffocating wave of feelings. He finishes the entire fifth of whiskey in less than a minute, and his head is spinning as he tries to drown his thoughts.</p><p>
  <i>This is how I die, huh?</i>
</p><p>Hank pours a heaping helping of dog food into Sumo’s bowl, and he leaves the top of the bag open, too. Someone will find him well before his dog starves, but just in case. He kisses Sumo on his forehead, weeping into his soft fur, and the dog wags his tail, licking Hank’s open palm eagerly.</p><p>Hank stands from his kneeling position and drops his entire weight into a dining chair, settling back into it as he stares at a photo of Cole. Poor kid. He deserved so much better. He deserved the world, truly, but the universe wouldn’t let him have it. Hank and his husband loved him with all of their heart, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing he did was ever enough.</p><p>Hank picks his revolver up off of the table, and his palms are sweating, as is the rest of his body. It feels like somebody is twisting a knife in his stomach, sawing it in and out of his abdomen, and he’s quickly losing control of his body. <i>Well, if one way doesn’t work, the other will,</i> Hank figures. He brings his finger to rest against the trigger and props the gun in his mouth, upside down, barrel pointing up into the sky. Hank shuts his eyes. His body aches, and ripples of fear course through his veins. Another surge of pain shoots through his stomach, and he’s too weak to press down on the trigger.</p><p>When he opens his eyes, the room is spinning, and his arm drops to his side, banging against the wooden table. He can feel the muscles that had been holding him steady go limp. His body starts to lean to the right, and he topples out of the chair. Hank’s vision goes dark, and the last thing he feels is the cracking of his skull against the linoleum tiles.</p>
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<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning -- the following chapter contains a "coming out" scene, religious homophobia, and familial abandonment.</p><p>Recommended listening: "What's Up?" 4 Non Blondes.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>12:13 PM, May 8, 2021</b>
</p><p>Hank’s palms are doused in sweat, and he grips his partner’s thigh across the center console. He’s panicking inwardly, and it’s starting to show. Hank struggles to steady his wavering breath, and he grits his teeth, setting his head against the driver’s side window.</p><p>“Come on, Hank, in and out,” Dennis soothes, closing his hands around Hank’s. He squeezes it gently and leans back in his seat. “Try to breathe for me, okay?”</p><p>“Yeah, okay,” Hank murmurs, forcing himself to let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. His face is red and blotchy from the stress, and he’s clean shaven, which is out of the norm.</p><p>“It’s gonna be fine,” Dennis tilts his head to the side and plants a gentle kiss on his partner’s cheek, pressing his ear to the larger man’s shoulder. “You’re gonna be okay, Hank. I promise.”</p><p>Hank has been with him for five years now -- he’s had plenty of time to learn that Dennis is kind, gentle, and loving. The man doesn’t seem to have a mean bone in his body. Though their relationship is generally healthy and happy, there’s been a persistent and frequently discussed problem: Hank’s parents still don’t know that they’re together.</p><p>They’d first crossed paths at a Michigan-wide police conference -- Dennis lived in Woodhaven, a much smaller town less than half an hour away. As soon as they met, they were attached at the hip. Their relationship had progressed rather quickly, all things considered, but Hank liked it that way. A certain void in his heart had been filled. It was a void that Hank wasn’t even <i>aware</i> was there.</p><p>He still had trouble putting down the bottle, but Dennis’ presence alone helped a lot. Before knowing him, Hank had been closed off to the world. So closed off, in fact, that his life was passing him by. His brain and body had been stuck on autopilot. Dennis was helping him learn how to <i>feel,</i> no matter how much it hurt.</p><p>They pull into the driveway of Hank’s childhood home, and he sighs, tipping his skull back against the headrest. The driveway’s concrete has been repoured, and the house itself has been repainted, but a feeling of unmistakable nostalgia still emanates from it.</p><p>“I don’t think I can do it, Denny,” Hank breathes, gripping the steering wheel with clenched fists. “They don’t know anything about me,” He admits, pressing his eyes shut. “They don’t know jack <i>shit.</i> They’ll disown me, and they don’t need to lose another son.” It had been eight years since Michael’s death, but he knew his parents were still in deep, deep pain. “Jesus Christ, I’m gonna puke.”</p><p>“You’re <i>okay,</i> Hank,” Dennis says, rubbing the back of the other’s neck with a gentle hand. “You don’t have to. It’s alright.” The sunset bounces off of his mossy amber eyes, and he blinks slowly in his partner’s direction.</p><p>Hank’s mind is scattered into a trillion pieces, but he has the presence of mind to make himself unbuckle his seatbelt. He shifts the car into park and holds onto the door handle, sighing deeply. “C’mon. Let’s get this over with,” He grumbles, pushing the door open. He’s pale and shivering, but he still manages to stand, tugging at the bottom of his button-up and smoothing his pants.</p><p>Dennis follows him to the front door. He’s thin, wiry, and relatively short. His eyes are curious. He watches deliberately as Hank brings his fist to the door, knocking with little enthusiasm. Dennis’s facial hair is shaved into a cropped goatee that takes him much too long to groom, and his hair is slicked back and away from his face. A few grey hairs pepper his beard. Hank’s has already greyed entirely.</p><p>Hank’s mother opens the door. She is a little old lady now, short and smiling, with kind eyes behind her matronly glasses. Just inside the door, a small cross is nailed to the wall. When she locks eyes with Dennis’, her face drops, and she clutches the doorknob. She looks up at Hank, and though she is much shorter and weaker, it remains clear that her son is still trapped under her thumb. “Hank, what is this?” She begs, searching his face. Her son sucks his lips in between his teeth, unable to meet her eyes.</p><p>“This is my partner, Denny,” The words tumble out of Hank’s mouth, and by the time he’s said them, he wishes he could take them back. Dennis rubs his boyfriend’s back, hoping to assist in grounding him, but it doesn’t seem to help. Hank’s mother begins to shake -- Dennis can’t be sure if it’s due to anger, sadness, or surprise -- and she opens her mouth as if to speak,  only to shut it again seconds later.</p><p>“Your father can’t see this,” She finally whispers, her voice somber and quaking. “How could you hurt me like this, Henry?” Melissa Anderson says through tears. “You’re going to end up like your brother, you do know that, right?” Her small body quivers, and she sits slowly on a chair near the door, easing her weight down gently. “Please, Lord above, forgive my son,” She prays, tears rolling down her face.</p><p>Before she can say more, Hank turns around, walking back down the steps in silence. Dennis stays for a moment, his head darting between the old woman and his lover, before turning and following the latter. Dennis grabs at his partner’s hand, but Hank doesn’t take it. He gets into the car, his eyes blank, and turns the key in the ignition, the engine sputtering to a start. Dennis gets into the passenger seat, and as soon as the door shuts, Hank floors it in reverse, pulling out of the driveway as quickly as he can.</p><p>Hank speeds off, staring straight forward, and Dennis remains silent. There’s no movement in the car. It’s only once they’re a mile down the road that Hank places his hand lightly onto Dennis’ thigh once again. Hank weaves his fingers between the other’s, and hot tears well in his eyes. They don’t speak for the rest of the ride home, choosing instead to sit in silence as the radio plays quietly.</p>
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<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning -- the following chapter contains mentions of suicide and mental health, hospitals, physical pain, and slight body horror.</p><p>Recommended listening: "Cemetery Gates," The Smiths.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2:23 AM, November 24, 2038</b>
</p><p>There’s a quiet beeping when Hank awakens, but when he turns to look for the source of the noise, he can’t open his eyes. They seem to be swelled shut, at least partially, and when he breathes, he can still hear the crackle of snot in his nose. <i>Ah, shit.</i> It didn’t work. <i>Fuck.</i></p><p>Hank feels a hand on his, but he doesn’t know whose it is. He squeezes it anyway, and his head throbs. His mouth is dried out behind an oxygen mask, and his tongue feels tacky against the roof of his mouth.</p><p>He groans, bringing his other hand up to his face. When he presses his fingers to his cheeks, they feel swollen and bloated. When he tries to roll over and get comfortable, his joints ache, and he lets out a pained noise. He gives up, lying flat on his back and mumbling something under his breath, his chest rising and falling beneath the thin hospital sheets.</p><p>“Easy, Lieutenant,” He hears a disembodied voice say. “Let me help you.” He feels hands on his back, and he’s being pulled onto his side. His hip bone settles into the mattress, and he sighs, letting his ear press into the pillow. The strange hand rejoins with Hank’s, and he grasps it responsively.</p><p>“Connor? Is that you?” He mumbles, trying to open his eyes. He can see nothing more than streaks of bright light through his puffy squint.</p><p>“Yes, Lieutenant,” Connor admits. He’s sitting in a chair by Hank’s side, studying the human’s injured face. “I found you in your home a few hours ago, and you were unresponsive, so I took you to the hospital.” The android pauses as Hank takes a labored breath, sighing with displeasure. Shame clearly radiates from the older man’s body.</p><p>“Sorry you had to find me like that again, shit,” Hank whispers, shutting his eyes again and trying not to focus on the pain in his abdomen. “I shouldn’t have put you through that.” He almost swears he can feel the android brushing his hair off of his face.</p><p>“When I found you the first time, I thought maybe it was a one-time thing, and that you’d get better on your own,” Connor admits, tugging at the tie around his neck. “I suppose I miscalculated.” He sits there and stares at Hank, waiting for a response. The lieutenant’s skin has a yellowish hue and he’s bloated, the skin on and around his eyes puffy and dark. He took a pretty bad fall, evidently. Connor just sits there and holds his hand -- that’s all he can think to do.</p><p>“Where’s Sumo?” Hank asks finally, still curled up on his side. His stomach turns as he imagines his poor dog lying beside his body, licking his face and trying to rouse him unsuccessfully.</p><p>“He’s still back at your house,” Connor says, treading carefully. He pauses for a moment, considering his next words. “I was thinking I could stay in your house and take care of him while you’re recovering here.” The android traces a distracted finger along the patterned quilt hanging off the side of the sickbed.</p><p>“That would be alright,” Hank mumbles, breathing out slowly through his nose. “Sumo really seems to like you.” He considers for a moment the fact that Connor is sitting by his side, and holding his hand, all without him having to ask. It’s almost like he <i>cares,</i> which seems surreal.</p><p>Hank can hear a nurse come in. “He’s awake,” Connor tells her, and she responds with something to the affirmative, coming to sit at Hank’s side.</p><p>“I’m just going to have you answer some questions for me, okay?” She says. “I’ll be filling out a form for you.”</p><p>“Okay,” Hank mumbles.</p>
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<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning -- the following chapter contains graphic description of corpses, drug abuse, accidental overdose, child neglect, and trauma.</p><p>Recommended listening: "Bittersweet Symphony," The Verve.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p><p>Bonus content: my concept drawing of Hank and Denny in 2032. https://twitter.com/cinnabubble/status/1292304404763348992</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>3:08 AM, December 28, 2029</b>
</p><p>Hank flips on his sirens, the toe of his shoe pressing the gas pedal to the floor. It’s his fourth call of the day, but still, pure adrenaline is running through his veins. He’s been in the force for over two decades by this point, and though he’d become quite hardened over the years, cases involving children still got to him. Seeing such young lives enduring such awful circumstances made him hurt. He couldn’t help but be reminded of his own past when he saw little children who were dead behind the eyes and frozen with shock.</p><p>When he arrived at the door, the paramedics were already present. The sound of ribs cracking beneath crossed hands echoes off the walls as a first responder performs CPR. The victim, a middle-aged woman, is practically blue and surrounded by needles. She seems short, and her body is predictably frail. Track marks line her arms and some even surround her neck. Her entire body is bruised black and blue. Hank hears an infant wailing in the next room, and he shivers, fearing the absolute worst.</p><p>He turns on his toes, careful to navigate the filthy carpet, and walks into the next room. One of the paramedics sits alone, cradling a child. She doesn’t seem any older than six or seven, but she already looks like she’s seen too much. She’s the one who made the call when she found her mother unresponsive, Hank could reasonably assume. She peers up at Hank with a blank expression, gripping a teddy bear, her eyes deep pools of blue. It isn’t until the paramedic brushes her matted, mousey hair to the side that Hank sees an LED, lit up with a solid, deep red color. He blinks, conflicted, and licks his lips.</p><p>He turns his attention to the cradle pushed up against the wall. Inside is a baby, his mouth open and wailing. The infant has no diaper, is predictably dirty, and looks painfully underfed, his extremities thin but his stomach bloated. In the back of Hank’s head is a conversation that he and his husband had several years ago. “We’re not spring chickens, you know,” Hank can hear Denny say. “If we’re gonna adopt, we should probably start the process sooner or later.” Hank had, of course, agreed, but the conversation hadn’t gone much further. He guessed that the both of them had just been waiting for the right circumstances to come about. The right place, and the right time.<br/>
Was that time <i>now?</i></p><p>He reaches his hand down to press his fingers to the boy’s chest. “Don’t worry, we’re here to save you,” Hank mumbles. Remarkably, the child wraps his fingers around Hank’s thumb and squeezes, gurgling before taking a deep breath. Hank’s heart cracks in two as the infant cries out again, more tears rolling down the baby’s wet cheeks.</p><p>“Alright, up we go,” Hank says reluctantly, reaching down to grab the boy beneath his armpits. He lifts him out of his filth, recoiling at the smell, and holds him away from his body awkwardly as he walks out to the kitchen. More personnel have arrived by now, and it appears that the CPR hasn’t been successful. An officer stands by the body, filling out paperwork, and the first responders are laying out a body bag. <i>Jesus Christ.</i></p><p>Hank lays the baby on the counter for a moment, and the child flinches as his back touches the cold surface. “Just for a second, I promise,” Hank murmurs, clearing stacks upon stacks of dirty dishes from the kitchen sink. He places them on the floor, plugs the sink, and turns on the tap, checking the temperature with his index finger. When the sink is halfway filled, he adds soap to the water, stirring it with his hand and watching the suds rise. He pushes his sleeves up as far as they’ll go and sighs, looking back down at the baby boy.</p><p>Hank puts his hands beneath the child again and lowers him gently into the water. The baby gives him a stupid, gummy grin, the ridge of a single lower tooth poking through pink gums. Hank can’t help but smile back as he lathers the child. “You’re so happy, even in the middle of all this bullshit,” Hank says aloud as he scrubs the baby’s chest, scoffing and shaking his head. “All ‘cause I’m giving you a bath. I wish I was that easy to please.” He squirts more soap onto his hand and rubs it into the baby’s scalp while supporting his neck with his other arm.</p><p>The baby coos absentmindedly, and Hank’s eyes flick into the other room as the woman is rolled unceremoniously into the body bag. He looks back down at the child. “You’re <i>really</i> lucky you’re too young to understand any of this,” He says, holding himself steady as he tries to keep his sadness within. “This would be enough to break someone forever, you know.” He fills a cup with fresh water and pours it over the baby, letting the suds run down his back and off of his body.</p><p>After laying the infant on a towel and swaddling him up tight, Hank reaches for his phone. He calls Dennis, and after two rings, he answers. “Guess what, hon?” Hank says, a smile clear in his voice. “I think we just found our kid.”</p>
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<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning -- the following chapter contains inpatient mental health treatment, therapy, and internalized homophobia, along with recollections of child death, child sexual abuse, and religious homophobia.</p><p>Recommended listening: "1000 Umbrellas," XTC.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>3:59 AM &amp; 9:06 AM, December 8, 2038</b>
</p><p>Hank sits up and rubs his eyes, yawning. “Good morning,” The nurse says. He’s curt, but it doesn’t bother him at all. It’s been the same routine every morning for the past two weeks. Every day at 4 AM, he’s awakened to get his blood drawn by a practitioner, and then he’s allowed to have a few more hours of sleep. Then, before breakfast, he gets his vitals taken. And after that, he eats his glorified prison food along with everyone else in the ward.</p><p>The days spent inside the facility are somehow even more monotonous than his normal life. Everything is kept to a strict schedule, including the daily therapy sessions. He supposes being in here <i>is</i> better than being dead, but not by very much.</p><p>Sitting in the group therapy room is vulnerable, and there’s an unmistakable sense of foreboding. Whenever it’s his turn to speak, Hank’s dread only grows larger in the pit of his stomach. Mentioning the death of his son, no matter how briefly, is enough to bring tears to his eyes. It hurts to relive.</p><p>For all intents and purposes, Hank has been doing well in his therapy, mostly because he can look forward to having Connor come and visit once a week. He’s embarrassed to say it, but he’s mostly doing this all for Connor. The guy saved his life, for God’s sake. To not give life another shot after someone made an active effort to save him would be… cruel, to say the least.</p><p>He still doesn’t know what he and Connor are to each other -- when they speak with one another, the room teems with sexual tension, at least on Hank’s side of things. And Connor has gotten increasingly touchy, from bumping his feet against Hank’s beneath a table to gently knocking their elbows together as they sit side by side. Hank has been out of the dating game for decades, so he’s not sure how much he can trust his own judgement.</p><p>After a typical morning, Hank is brought into another room by his therapist, who sits at a table with a clipboard in hand. Hank spills more of his guts than he would’ve liked to, and eventually, they land on a topic he wanted desperately to avoid.</p><p>“You have an ex-husband, correct?” The therapist asks, clicking his pen a few times.</p><p>“Yeah,” Hank mumbles, his leg jolting up and down beneath the table. He averts his eyes, choosing instead to stare at his hands.</p><p>“And this Connor, what is he to you?”</p><p>“I don’t know yet,” Hank admits, pursing his lips. “I’m kind of hesitant to put a label on anything, you know?”</p><p>“What do you consider your sexuality to be, Hank?” The therapist asks, prodding further into the discussion.</p><p>“I think it’s… I don’t know,” He mumbles, his face reddening. “It’s not what it should be, that’s for sure.”</p><p>“What do you mean by that?”</p><p>Hank can’t help but give an irritated sigh. “I, um... I’m attracted to men. But I don’t want that to be the case, like, at all.” He cracks his knuckles atop the table.</p><p>“And you don’t like women?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>His therapist pauses, ruminating on the thought. “So ‘gay’ would be an accurate descriptor then, would it not?”</p><p>“I guess.” Hank bites his tongue before he can say anything rude.</p><p>“What’s the problem with that?” The therapist asks, bringing his pen to the paper and scribbling something down.</p><p>“It’s bad.”</p><p>The other man stays quiet, waiting for Hank to elaborate, but nothing else is said.</p><p>“Where do you think you got that idea?” He asks finally, tapping the pen on the table top.</p><p>“Gee, I don’t know, my hyper-catholic parents, maybe?” The snide remark rolls off of his tongue before he can stop it. “Or the fact that I was molested by my brother?” He clenches his fists against his thighs, his fingernails digging into the delicate skin on his palms.</p><p>“It sounds like you never developed a healthy relationship with your sexuality.” The therapist states plainly, staring at Hank.</p><p>“No shit.”</p><p>The room is quiet for another few minutes, both parties waiting for the other to speak first.</p><p>Finally, Hank says, “Look, I know <i>logically</i> there’s nothing wrong with it, but my feelings overtake that logic most of the time.” His nose twitches, and he crumples down into the seat, studying his fingernails like a petulant child. “I haven’t been intimate with anyone since Denny and I split. It just doesn’t feel right.”</p><p>“That’s perfectly normal,” The therapist replies. “You two were together for a long time.” He scribbles something else on the paper with a frenzied hand.</p><p>“He just made it feel normal, you know?” Hank finally cracks, his emotion leaking out from behind his hardened shell. “Not like it was some big deal that we were different from other people.” He scratches his beard and rests his elbow on the table. “We were just <i>us</i>. You know?”</p><p>“Yeah,” His therapist replies. “I think I do.” He pauses. “If you’re going to want to pursue anything with Connor, you’re going to have to accept yourself unconditionally. It wouldn’t be fair to him, and it’s certainly not fair to yourself to keep denying your truth.”</p><p>Hank stays silent for a moment, pressing his lips together as he mulls over the words.</p><p>“Yeah,” He says. “I guess you’re right.”</p>
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<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning -- the following chapter contains body horror, car accidents, trauma, child death, and life-or-death choices.</p><p>Recommended listening: "Always Something There To Remind Me," Naked Eyes.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>10:43 PM, October 10, 2035</b>
</p><p>Nothing is real. Nothing is real. Nothing is real. Nothing is real.</p><p>The truck is overturned in the median of the freeway, and its windows are smashed in. Freezing air rushes unforgivingly over the two bodies inside.</p><p>Hank is silent, only held in place by his seat belt. His coarse, grey hair is riddled with shards of glass, and a deep gash is present on his forehead. Blood oozes down into his hair, and he groans quietly, finally coming to. His eyes flutter open, and he coughs, gripping his seat belt with a weak hand.</p><p>“Fuck, my head…” Hank hisses, pressing his hand over the gaping wound on his face. He turns his head to the side, squinting his eyes shut as a cold breeze stings his skin. The truck is embedded halfway in crunchy snow, but he can still hear the cars whizzing by on either side of the median.</p><p>“Cole?” Hank asks, trying to focus despite the pain throbbing through his body. “Are you okay, buddy?” He turns his head over his shoulder, and his heart drops. <i>“Shit!”</i></p><p>He begins to panic, balancing himself as he unbuckles his seat belt and brings his feet to the roof of the car. The father holds his head with a hand as vertigo sets in, the truck’s interior spinning aimlessly in front of his eyes. Cole is strung up by his seat belt, motionless, and he’s bleeding profusely from his legs. Much to Hank’s horror, he sees a shattered bone jutting out above his son’s ankle.</p><p>“Come on, bud, wake up,” Hank tries, rubbing his son’s shoulder. Cole doesn’t rouse, and his father begins to shake. He presses his fingers to his son’s neck, searching for a pulse, and luckily, he finds one, though it’s very faint. Hank tears off his own flannel and wraps it tightly around Cole’s leg, his heart threatening to beat its way out of his chest.</p><p>Finally, Hank can hear the wails of an ambulance nearing. He stays inside the car with his son, telling him in hushed tones how much he loves him, holding his limp hand and praying to a God he’s never believed in. When the paramedics wrench open the door, they have to pull Hank away from his barely living son. He allows the team to take the two of them to the ambulance. Cole has lost a lot of blood, they tell him, and his spinal cord has been badly damaged. He’ll need major surgery in order to live, and even then, the odds aren’t looking good.</p><p> Dennis is called by one of the first responders, and Hank can hear the panic in his husband’s voice over the sounds of rushing cars and falling snow. He’ll meet them at the hospital, he says. He tells Hank not to let Cole go.</p><p>Hank is in shock, but he manages to hold Cole’s hand as they barrel down the highway, sirens on and screaming. His son isn’t coming to.</p><p>It’s all a blur.</p><p>Cole is whisked into the operating room by a fleet of operational androids, their LEDs glowing blue against their cyberskin, and Hank is told not to worry. It’s been done a thousand times before. Nothing will go wrong.</p><p>Two hours later, Hank, too, enters the room, his son barely clinging on to life. He and Denny lay by his side, whispering to him and hoping he can hear them. The surgery wasn’t successful, and he’s on life support.</p><p>Within the hour, Cole is pronounced brain dead. </p><p>Denny and Hank have to make a painful decision: do they let their child live in a vegetative state, a husk of flesh and bones, and nothing more? Or do they let him die in dignity, letting his body pass as the rest of him already has?</p><p>They choose the latter.</p><p>His tiny heart stops beating, and he flatlines.</p><p>Cole dies in Hank’s arms.</p>
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<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning -- the following chapter contains mention of inpatient mental health treatment, flashbacks, suicide attempts, and intrusive thoughts.</p><p>Recommended listening: "Head Over Heels," Tears For Fears.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>11:28 AM, December 16, 2038</b>
</p><p>Connor invited Hank out to the Chicken Feed for his first meal outside of the facility. It had been a long three weeks, but all in all, Hank felt better -- if he didn’t, they wouldn’t have let him go, anyhow. His flashbacks were growing less intrusive, and he was able to recognize their presence without his brain getting stuck in a loop. He has a long way to go, mentally speaking, but he’s improving, and that’s what counts.</p><p>The human stands across from Connor as the cold wind blows over their faces. They could have talked about the growing deviancy investigation, which Hank desperately needed new information on, but they both seemed much more interested in each other’s personal lives.</p><p>“So, what have you been up to, Connor?” Hank asks, nudging the android with his elbow. “Sumo been keeping you busy?” He grinned, the little gap in his teeth visible beneath the late afternoon sun.</p><p>“He’s been a well-behaved handful,” Connor says, propping his head up by his fist. “I’ve been taking him on three walks a day, and he seems to love it.”</p><p><i>I’d love that myself,</i> Hank almost says, but he stops himself, taking a bite out of his burger and keeping his mouth intentionally full. He chews and swallows completely before responding. “Three walks a day, huh? I’d end up as skinny as you if I made that a habit.” He takes a swig of his soda, eyeing the android curiously.</p><p>Connor stares back at him with his deep brown eyes, and he cracks a stupid grin, his teeth showing awkwardly behind his lips. It’s times like these that Hank is reminded Connor isn’t a human. It’s something he has to consciously point out to himself -- to expect completely human behavior would be a grave error, according to his therapist, especially given Connor’s last “death” triggered a suicide attempt.</p><p>Even still, Connor being an android doesn’t make Hank love him any less.</p><p>Hank slides his hand across the table. To an untrained eye, it could seem to be just a shift in weight to make himself more comfortable, but really, he wants something else. Connor glances down, his LED whirling yellow, and slides his fingers up to touch the human’s.</p><p>They sit there for a moment, basking in relief and relaxation, and they lock eyes. Hank smirks, and Connor blinks, studying his partner’s face.</p><p>“Do you want to kiss me, Hank?” Connor asks innocently, his head cocking to the side. He rubs his fingertips across the back of Hank’s hand. The sensation makes the human shiver, and a glint shines in his eye.</p><p>“Just a little,” He whispers, setting his jaw and blinking.</p><p>Connor lifts Hank’s hand and presses his own palm to the lieutenant’s, almost like he’s trying to interface with him, no matter how impossible that may be. Hank has to keep himself from laughing at the newness of it, and he leans over the table.</p><p>Connor, despite his youth and inexperience, is a good kisser. He doesn’t use too much tongue, and when he bites the human’s lip, it’s just hard enough to make the blood rush to his face. He and Connor sit there for a moment, liplocked, exploring each other’s mouths. It’s both anxiety provoking and stimulating.</p><p>He doesn’t taste like plastic, much to Hank’s surprise, nor does he taste like metal. His mouth feels human, and tastes human, and may as well <i>be</i> human.</p><p>When they draw away from each other, Connor smiles, the enthusiasm of a playful puppy showing quite obviously on his face. “I like that a lot,” The android says, twining his fingers with the human’s and lowering their hands to the table.</p><p>“So do I,” Hank says, taking another sip from his soda. “I mean, I think I’d enjoy <i>anything</i> if I was doing it with you.”</p><p>“Anything?” Connor asks.</p><p>“Anything.” Hank replies.</p>
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<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter 22</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning -- the following chapter contains graphic descriptions of drug abuse, alcohol abuse, cutting, marital problems, child death, grief, job loss, and divorce.</p><p>Recommended listening: "I Love You Like An Alcoholic," The Taxpayers.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>5:20 PM, September 23, 2037</b>
</p><p>The front door swings open, and Dennis shifts lamely on the couch, a couple of used needles rolling down into the cracks between the cushions. The crook of his elbows are peppered with a myriad of pock marks, and his arms are covered in muddled, browning bruises. His pupils are dilated, and his irises are almost entirely hidden. His head rolls down against the back pillows, and he grunts through pale lips, dribbles of saliva collecting at the corners of his mouth.</p><p>Hank is used to the sight, though he wishes he wasn’t. Denny had seemed to be getting better, and he was just under two months sober -- emphasis on the was. Today would have been Cole’s eighth birthday, and Hank supposes it was the cruel reminder of human mortality that set his husband over the edge.</p><p>“Denny? What are you doing?” Hank asks with a panicked quiver in his voice. He already knows the answer. His body feels heavy at the sight of his grieving husband. He’s thinner than normal, practically skin on bone, and there is a horrifying vacancy behind his dark brown eyes. Dennis doesn’t respond, only closing his eyes and slumping down further onto the couch.</p><p>As much as Hank would like to take the moral high ground, he can’t. He had snuck into the bathroom at work during his break and cut up his arms with his pocket knife, and he’d even poured a heaping helping of vodka into his coffee, which tasted as disgusting as it sounded. Both he and his husband are controlled entirely by their urges, and it’s terrifying.</p><p>It hurts to admit, but in the past two years, the love in their marriage has evaporated entirely. There’s no affection between them, and certainly no intimacy. Instead, they’re both married to their addictions and absorbed by their grief. The loss of their dearly-loved son has swallowed them whole, and the damage to their respective psyches is irreparable.</p><p>Hank’s nostrils flare as a gurgled moan escapes his partner’s chest. Tears sting in his eyes. It’s not his fault, he knows it isn’t, but it doesn’t make seeing Denny in this state hurt any less. Denny used to be a star officer, someone who was always there to help people in need. But a month or so after Cole’s death, he had been assigned to a position as a receptionist. And a month or so after <i>that,</i> he had been fired altogether.</p><p>For these few years he’s been unemployed, he’s had nothing to do but lean further and further into his red ice addiction. Hank is dragging an emotionally broken and physically dying Dennis along in life like a ball and chain, and it seems he’s finally hit his breaking point.</p><p>“Out. <i>Now.”</i> Hank spits through clenched teeth, pointing through the front door towards the falling rain. “I can’t fucking do it anymore, Denny.” He knows that his husband can’t hear him, but he continues speaking anyway. Dennis’ eyes are rolled back in his head, and a labored snore vibrates in the back of his throat. His hands are at his sides, palms up, and his legs are twisted unnaturally beneath his body.</p><p>Hank approaches Dennis carefully, stepping lightly to avoid any stray needles, and he hoists the unconscious figure up from the sofa. It’s scarily easy to lift him over his shoulder -- he can’t weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds. He carries his husband out to his car and drapes him across the back seat, falling rain and frustrated tears wetting his grey hair and sticking to his cheeks.</p><p>Denny lies motionless in the back seat as Hank drives him to the hospital, the cuts on his arms weeping as he scratches the wounds back open. Hank has had the divorce papers ready for a week, and as much as it hurts, he knows what he’ll have to do.</p><p>When Dennis is dropped off at the hospital and cordoned to his bed, Hank leaves the papers on the bedside table, along with a handwritten note.</p><p>“Dear Denny,” It reads.</p><p>“We’re both in a lot of pain. And as the saying goes, ‘hurt people hurt people.’ I know you don’t mean to do what you do. You and I just got stuck in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe in another universe, this all would’ve worked out. We could’ve seen Cole grow up into the courageous, beautiful, talented young man that we both know he would have been. But that all would have been too good to be true, right?</p><p>We’ve both got a lot of work to do on ourselves before we can even entertain the idea of staying together. I’m so afraid that I’ll come home from work one day to see you lying dead on the kitchen floor. I care about you, and I know you care about me, too, but a lot of times it doesn’t feel like it.</p><p>I’m hoping this is for the best. It probably is, ‘cause I can’t imagine things could get any worse than they already are. Just know that I want you to get better, and I want to get better, too. If all roads really lead to Rome, then maybe we’ll meet again and start anew. But only if we’ve both healed from what keeps us tangled up in our vices.</p><p>I miss you and your laugh, your smile, your smart-ass jokes. I hope you know that.</p><p>See you on the other side, Denny.</p><p>Hank.”</p>
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<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Chapter 23</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>No warnings. Just gratuitous, happy, fluffy smut. Enjoy. :)</p><p>Recommended listening: "Golden Years," David Bowie.</p><p>Spotify playlist for this work: shorturl.at/ACEM1</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>3:31 PM, January 16, 2039</b>
</p><p>It takes two weeks from becoming “official” before Hank is willing to take things further with Connor. It’s a quick progression, and Hank knows it, but they may as well feed the flame while it’s still burning hot, eh? He’s chatted with his therapist about it, anyhow -- he’s finding it a lot easier to be open with his emotions in all facets of his life. It’s liberating, and while he can’t believe it’s taken him this long to learn self-acceptance, he’s elated that he’s on the path to becoming stable and secure.</p><p>But enough self reflection. There are more important things at hand; namely, a very special android’s newly realized libido.</p><p>Connor is straddling Hank on the human’s couch in front of the quietly-playing television, non-verbally demanding attention from the older man. Hank’s hands are brushing through the android’s hair absentmindedly. He rubs the android’s freckled cheek with a calloused thumb, and Connor stares Hank in the eyes, pressing his forehead to the older man’s. The android smiles, settling down squarely into Hank’s lap with his hips. His lovely thin fingers tug at the bottom of Hank’s “Metallica” tee shirt, and the human’s hands find Connor’s waist. His abdomen feels slender and toned and beautiful, even through the too-big Detroit Police Department hoodie draped over his mechanical body.</p><p>Hank allows Connor to pull the tee shirt over his head, and the android brings it to his nose, almost like he’s smelling it, before touching his tongue to the fabric gently. Connor’s umber eyes sparkle in the lamplight as Hank pets his lower back, his wiry beard grazing against the thinner man’s neck. “What are you doing with that shirt, sweetheart?” Hank mumbles into Connor’s ear, his grey eyes blinking up slowly at the android.</p><p>Connor lowers the shirt from his face. “I’m analyzing the DNA on it,” He replies earnestly, cocking his head and leaning away to look Hank in the eyes. “If it bothers you, I’ll stop.” He’s too sweet for his own good. His hair is slightly tousled, and the angularity of his bones is swallowed by Hank’s extra-large sweatshirt.</p><p>“No, Con, it doesn’t bother me,” Hank says, squeezing the android’s thigh beneath an outstretched hand. “It’s cute when you do that.” The human grins, revealing the slight gap between his two front teeth. “You don’t have to change a thing.”</p><p>Connor leans forward and kisses him then, pressing his thin lips against the human’s and exhaling gently through his nose. Hank’s shirt is still balled in his left hand, but his right comes to meet with Hank’s belly, the cyberskin of his fingertips running over the other’s curly grey chest fur. Connor stops to press his hand against Hank’s heart, and the older man clasps the back of his neck with an open hand, pulling the other closer. Connor’s mouth is hot, and wet, and glorious, and Hank can only assume that the rest of him must be, too.</p><p>The android tips his head back, coming up for air, but not really, and Hank takes the golden opportunity. He tugs the hoodie’s neck down slightly, leaning in and sucking at Connor’s clavicle more strongly than he’d intended. His erect cock pokes up, tenting in his boxer shorts and prodding at Connor’s thigh as the android shifts above him. He moans as the human drags his lips across soft, bare skin.</p><p>Connor, too, is hard as a rock, his phallus pressing against Hank’s belly as he rocks his hips forward. The lieutenant beneath him grunts lowly, gripping Connor’s ass and rutting up against him. He kisses the crook of the android’s neck, delighting in the feeling of muscle rippling under his fingers. Connor drags his hand over Hank’s chest and reciprocates with a few experimental squeezes of his own, a nipple growing erect beneath his cyberskin palm.</p><p>Hank has finally had enough, gripping the android by his haunches and lifting him up. His cock bounces as he stands. Connor wraps his arms around the human’s neck and holds steady as the two of them lumber into the bedroom. He clutches his feet around Hank’s waist desperately, holding on for dear life, before Hank heaves him onto the bed, pinning the android against the comforter. He drags his hand up Connor’s swollen cock before wrapping his fingers around it, squeezing at the tip slightly. The android mewls in relief, arching his back below the touch.</p><p>Hank yanks his own waistband down, and his length springs free, throbbing and twitching as his muscles flex. He pushes up Connor’s hoodie, exposing his toned belly and perky nipples, and the android happily obliges, pulling the sweatshirt over his head and tossing it to the side. “You’re so handsome, Hank,” A quiet voice rises up from the bed, and the human can’t help but smile.</p><p>“You’re handsome too, hon,” Hank mumbles down at Connor.</p><p>The human lowers himself to his knees, gripping the back of Connor’s thigh, and examines his hole, gliding over it with a feather-light finger. The android flinches, his muscles tightening, and he hums through his nose in quiet approval. Hank brings his face forward, gripping Connor’s length with his free hand, and tongues at his entrance, pressing in carefully as the android writhes. He pumps his hand slowly, rolling the other’s foreskin back, and he can feel Connor tightening around him. <i>Jesus, this’ll be like sticking your dick in a Chinese finger trap.</i> Not that Hank had ever done that, of course.</p><p>Connor purrs and relaxes, letting Hank insert a careful finger, and then another, the human spreading him open with gentle rhythmic thrusts. The android lets his hands wander over his own body, basking in the heavenly feeling of pressure inside of him, and finds his hand meeting Hank’s on his phallus. Hank pauses, dropping the offending fingers to rest on the android’s inner thigh, and Connor takes matters into his own hands, pulsing his grip’s pressure as he pumps up and down his length. Hank doesn’t seem to mind, and he continues fanning his fingers inside of the other.</p><p>The android whines in protest as the human withdraws suddenly, aching at the loss. Hank stands, tapping his stiffened cock against Connor’s hole. He slides his fingers down between the other’s abs and over his navel, following the thin trail of hair down to his cock. He lines himself up and begins pressing in gently, tugging on Connor’s beautiful shaft with a closed fist.</p><p><i>“Fuuuck,”</i> Connor groans simply, lifting his arms above his head and gripping the bed sheets. He trembles as the human presses in deeper, his lip quivering at the overwhelming sensation of fullness. <i>“God,</i> Hank, you feel so good.” The android sighs as Hank pulls out slightly, a mixture of blue blood and lubricant rolling down the length of his shaft.</p><p>Hank hunches over Connor, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple as he presses back in. He balls his fists on either side of the other’s body, lost in the carnal pleasure of lust, and leans down to kiss him, biting the android’s lip between slightly parted teeth. Connor replies by bringing his hands to the back of Hank’s head, pulling him closer and wrapping his long, lean legs around the human.</p><p>With the new pressure on his lower back, Hank bottoms out inside of the android, groaning and shutting his eyes as he rests his lips in the crook of Connor’s neck, nibbling gently at the sensitive cyberskin. Connor parses through the older man’s thick, grey hair, and moans as his cock is trapped between their abdomens. Hank’s thrusting picks up, and the android’s foreskin rolls back, the much-appreciated friction inspiring lubricant to drool from his dick tip.</p><p>“You’re so tight, Connor, <i>shit,”</i> Hank whispers against the android’s neck, his elbows buckling slightly as his partner whines quietly.</p><p>“Hank,” He hears Connor whimper, the shorter man’s legs trembling around Hank’s lower back. Hank feels an undeniable warm, sticky wetness shoot out between their sandwiched bodies, and the android groans. Connor’s muscles pulse around Hank’s length, and he grows still, hands still gripping the back of Hank’s neck tightly.</p><p>Hank smiles as Connor sighs, the android’s lips parted gently as his chest rises and falls. When the human pulls back, he sees that Connor’s bare abdomen is coated with blue-hued, translucent ejaculate. His once-erect phallus has grown soft, and the thinner man runs his fingers over the sticky substance with innocent curiosity.</p><p>Hank pulls out, his dick twitching, and tips his head back, breathing heavily through his nose. With a few passes of his hand over his throbbing length, he, too, finishes, six ropes of hot semen painting Connor’s abdomen.</p><p>They sit motionless for a while in post-coital bliss, and Hank drips with sweat from the intense exertion. That was the most exercise he’d had in years. Soon, though, Hank stands, examining the mess on both of their stomachs. Good grief. He pulls a towel from the bathroom cabinet and returns to a now sitting Connor. The android stretches his arms above his head -- whether it actually does anything for him, Hank can’t be sure -- and smiles, hair sticking out in every direction from his usually manicured coiff. Little hickeys are blotted across his neck, revealing patches of the white, mechanical body beneath his cyberskin.</p><p>Once they’ve cleaned up, the two of them crawl under the covers of Hank’s bed, sharing body heat and happy conversation. It’s the first time in years that Hank has been able to cuddle someone, and it feels good. <i>So</i> good. He didn’t realize how truly touch starved he had become.</p><p>Anything that had mattered a day ago was long forgotten by now. All Hank could think about was the present -- the lovely, joyful present. Connor wrapped his arm over Hank’s body and nestled his nose into the nape of the other’s neck, and the human’s heart soared in his chest, riding the unstoppable high of intimate affection.</p><p>“I love you, Hank.” The words were mumbled through tired lips against Hank’s upper back, and when the human heard them, his body swelled with happiness. He never thought he would hear those words again.</p><p>“I love you, too.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading -- I hope my slaughtering of the timeline wasn't too distracting. I also hope I got all of the trigger warnings sorted correctly. There were quite a few, to say the least. I'm not sure how my therapist would feel about all of the shit I projected onto Hank here. Is writing shit like this a good coping mechanism? I honestly have no idea.</p><p>I usually don't do long-form stuff, because I have the attention span of a demented goldfish, but I think this turned out okay. I started on the plot development way back in 2018, and I'm glad I've finally put the idea to its proverbial rest. Don't expect much more multi-chapter stuff. Such works obviously take me a painfully slow eon to complete.</p><p>Give my Twitter (https://twitter.com/cinnabubble) a visit, if you'd like -- I upload drawings every now and again and post every time I come out with a new writing.</p><p>Godspeed,</p><p>Red</p>
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